


Smoke

by lifeonmars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes time and space collide to show you something you've been missing. Sherlock's pipe helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

Last hour of John's shift, and he's running late: one more patient, then paperwork. He'll get takeaway on the way home. Sherlock will want curry; John wants Chinese. John's buying. Chinese it is.

John picks up his phone. _Chinese tonight,_ he taps. _What do you_

His phone buzzes abruptly. John doesn't even look at the ID; it's Sherlock, it must be, calling to gripe about the lateness of dinner. John swipes a thumb across the smudged screen.

"Sorry, long day, I'll be home in half an hour. If you're that hungry just phone for delivery, all right, Sherlock?"

"John?"

The voice on the other end is female, anxious, and distinctly not the deep baritone of John's flatmate.

"Y-yes. Hello? This is John Watson." John fumbles with his phone but doesn't recognize the ID.

"Hi, so sorry to bother you, you're Harry's brother? This is Kate Whitney, friend of Harry's, I think we met last year?" There's loud, indistinct noise muddling the sound on the line -- a restaurant or pub? John can't tell.

"Yes, okay, hi. Sorry. I thought you were my flatmate."

"Look, I hate to trouble you, but Harry's out with me, and she's not -- er, she's not well --" At this a loud peal of laughter nearly interrupts the call; there's a scrabbling noise, then: "Sorry. Quiet, Harry! John -- I was wondering, if you're available, if you could come round and pick her up, we've all got tickets to a show later but it might be best if Harry -- shush! -- if Harry went home instead." A pause. "One of us would take her but we've not got time to make the show otherwise. But if it's not convenient --"

Christ. John has done his share of carting Harry home from parties, but not for a couple of years at least. He sincerely hopes this is a freak occurrence and not the start of some horrific new binge on Harry's part, because if it is -- John is mentally rearranging the next thirty minutes: ask Wallace to take the last patient, scrap the paperwork till Monday, call Sherlock and tell him to order a bloody curry --

"Yeah, no, I can do it. I can be there, Kate is it? Kate, just text me the address, right? Where are you?"

The address is somewhere in Southeast London, and ten minutes later John is speeding across town in a taxi and owes Dr. Wallace a big favor. Sherlock isn't answering his phone. Fine. Texting it is.

_Family trouble. Picking up Harry across town. Can you get takeaway? JW_

City lights blur past the smudged cab windows and John tries not to think about the state his sister must be in for her friends to call for a pickup at this hour. John had the last shift, but it's not even seven yet --

_Don't need food. SH_

John rolls his eyes. "Thanks a lot, Sherlock," he mutters. Of course, it would never occur to Sherlock that John, unlike Sherlock, actually needs to consume food more than once every two days. However, this means Sherlock is likely on a case. John realizes that if Sherlock were home, he'd have sent texts every five minutes starting at six p.m. asking if John would pick up a curry. And milk at Tesco. And sausages. And some obscure model of light bulb that John would never find at Tesco after searching for twenty minutes straight.

When the cab finally pulls up to the address on John's phone he gets out only to be assaulted by noise. There are people spilling out the door of a club which John can only imagine is the one his sister needs to be carted away from. A dozen clubgoers are smoking fags on the pavement outside, and as John walks briskly towards the entrance he catches a distinct fragrance on the air and amends that thought: they're smoking joints. Fantastic. Weed and Harry don't mix. The last time John can recall Harry getting high was the time she fell asleep on the Tube with her shirt off. Thankfully he hadn't witnessed that particular incident, but he'd gotten an earful from Clara.

John shoulders his way through the crowded doorframe and into the cacophony of whatever this random club happens to be. Loud music, smell of booze, more smoke, dim lights. Tables. Dance floor. He feels about a thousand years old in his rumpled button-down work shirt and trousers and sensible shoes. Damn Harry and her outstanding talent for self-destruction.

It doesn't take long before a vaguely familiar woman about Harry's age -- a doe-eyed brunette, would be pretty but she's gone a bit heavy-handed on the eyeliner -- has her hand on John's forearm. John imagines he's dead easy to spot in this place.

"John?"

"Kate?" She nods, begins pulling him back towards one of the booths in the back of the club, talking loudly all the while to be heard above the din. "Thanks ever so much for coming, she's just over here, I think she'll be all right but it doesn't seem she can make it to the concert..."

"It's fine," John says distractedly, and he's spotted Harry at last, slumped in the corner of a booth with a few other women John recognizes as Harry's friends. Afghanistan has aged John dramatically, he knows, but it's still odd to look at Harry and think how young she looks still, even though they're only a few years apart. They don't look alike, not really; she's got John's sandy, straight hair and a vague hint of his nose, but she's flushed and giggling, bleary-eyed, a complete wreck at the moment. It would almost be possible to mistake her for a uni student if it weren't for the faint threads of grey in her short bob.

Harry sees John, but it takes her a full minute to really _see_ John. Kate is still babbling apologetically.

"We had quite a lot of wine with dinner, and we're off to a show in a few minutes, so we stopped here to get -- " She glances at John as if to remind herself that he's Harry's brother, and not her father -- "to get a bag to smoke, for the concert, you know, and we had a bit of a sample, and the rest of us are all right but Harry's just..." She gestures helplessly. "I don't know what's wrong, she almost went to sleep a minute ago."

"Yeah, I can see. Thanks. Sometimes with weed, this... happens to Harry."

Harry's friends nod at John in greeting, begin to slide out of the booth. They're all pink-eyed, vaguely smiling, but clearly still coherent.

"Sorry Harry," one says, and this sparks a chorus. "Sorry love." "Go home and sleep, all right?" "We'll go out next weekend."

"Later," Harry mumbles as John slides into the booth next to her.

Kate squeezes John's arm again. "Thanks," she says. "We've got to run. Sorry."

"See you. Enjoy the show."

"Will do."

John's no Sherlock, but when it comes to Harry, he's keenly observant. This, at least, is his area of expertise. He nudges her shoulder until she looks him squarely in the face, and the history of her evening is obvious. Kate was right: red wine, and pot, and most likely two or three drinks at home before she met her friends. The missing part of the equation. Gin and tonic, if he knows Harry, and the last one was probably a double. But it's the weed that makes her loopy like this, loose-limbed and ridiculous. The weed would be fine by itself, maybe, but Harry never tries anything without a chaser. Or three.

"You," she slurs. "Someone called you. Kate."

"Yep," John says. "You smoked. You know what happens when you do that."

"I guess." Harry's eyes are losing focus; she blinks. "Everyone had some."

"Yeah, well, you're not everyone," John says, and Harry's going limp against him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Rest here," she murmurs. "Be fine inna minnit."

"Nope," John says, wrapping an arm around her and heaving one of her arms around his shoulders. She snorts and swats at him. "Nope, time to go home. On your feet now."

"Bastard," Harry mumbles.

"Yep," John says. "Up you go." He heaves Harry to her feet, hoping she can partly stand. He's not above carrying her fireman-style over his shoulder -- he's done it before -- but he hopes to God he doesn't have to do it in a crowded club. It's even more packed now than it was a few minutes ago, and the path to the entrance is badly congested. John scans the wall nearest to their booth: Yes. Back exit. He starts to steer Harry towards the door.

"Gerroff, I can walk." Harry tries to twist out of his hold, stumbles.

"Harry, damn it, just --"

"John, leggo, you _arse_ \--"

"John?"

John would know that deep, rumbling, smoke-tinged voice anywhere, but he sure as hell doesn't expect it here. His first thought is that his subconscious has given up its own identity at last and is now speaking to him in Sherlock's voice. Any other possibility seems insane. He doesn't see Sherlock anywhere, Sherlock would stand out in this club a mile away, just like John --

There is a movement in the booth next to them and a man stands up to block their path. John hasn't paid much notice to the occupants of the other booths -- the one next to them, last he checked, was full of blokes in biker jackets with tattooed forearms, pints of lager. Like the rest of the men in the booth, this man is tall, broad-shouldered, in a heavy leather jacket, with unruly dark hair and startling pale eyes --

"Jesus _Christ,_ " John says.

This man doesn't look at all like Sherlock, doesn't remotely move like Sherlock. He looks twenty pounds heavier, clearly he's got a motorbike parked somewhere and this is John's mind playing tricks, right? There was something in that weed, surely. John wonders if it's possible to hallucinate without actually having inhaled the drug in question.

The man turns back to his companions and his voice is gruff, a working-class accent. "Ta, you lot. I'm off. Boone, give a call."

"Later, Martin."

The man turns back toward John, nods, and strides out the back door in his heavy black boots. John suddenly realizes Harry is slumped on his shoulder again, nearly drooling, and he shifts her weight with a heave and staggers gracelessly toward the back door.

The man is waiting for them when they stumble through the door. In one motion he reaches out, takes Harry's other arm, and bends his knees to take half her weight. "This way," he says, and somehow the other man has fallen away and it's entirely Sherlock after all.

Which is impossible.

John regains the use of his brain and the words tumble out as they hurry through the alley, Harry tottering between them like some comically disturbing life-sized doll.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, what the _bloody hell_ are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same question," Sherlock says, steering them down the alley and out onto a main thoroughfare. He drops Harry's arm, glances at her, a quick up-and-down look. "Evening, Harry."

"Hmmff." Harry's nearly passed out at this point; John's supporting her almost entirely. Sherlock steps into the road and throws an arm up as a taxi skids to a stop almost instantly. No question. Definitely Sherlock.

"Did you _follow me?_ "

"Good lord, no. On a case. Here you go, then," Sherlock says, climbing into the cab and taking Harry's arm again; there is an awkward reshuffling of arms and legs until Harry is settled on the seat between them, John rattling off Harry's address as the cab driver speeds off. Harry is snoring now, loudly, and Sherlock peers at her.

"Is she all right?"

"Not really," John says, "but she'll be fine after she sleeps it off. Bad miscalculation on her part. Can't handle weed and booze in any combination."

"Ah."

John looks up at him and Sherlock's eyes are crinkled at the corners. And slightly glassy. A thought occurs to John that sends a spike of anxiety through his chest. "Are you _high?_ " he whispers. "Did you go out to --"

"It's not what you think," Sherlock says quietly.

"Okay."

"But yes. A little."

John gapes. "Sherlock --"

Sherlock gives him an amused look. The _John, you idiot_ look. "Not high like that, don't be daft. Nothing hard."

"You smoked?"

"A bit," Sherlock says, and the corner of his mouth quirks, and he turns to look out the window. "Easy enough to tell why _you_ were at the club, I knew you'd gone to pick up your sister somewhere, but I'll admit, it's amazing that Harry happened to be at that particular one, as I'd planned a meeting there two nights ago."

"She's not involved in anything --"

"God no. Just coincidental, it seems. A little twitch of the universe. Time and space crossing paths. Lucky for us both."

Harry shifts and slumps over to doze on Sherlock's leather-jacket-clad shoulder. A twitch of the universe. Sherlock _is_ stoned.

"My life is fucking bizarre," John says matter-of-factly.

* * *

An hour later they've gotten Harry settled in her flat, and she's even coherent enough to be embarrassed that John and Sherlock nearly had to carry her up the stairs. John makes her drink half a glass of water and leaves her with paracetamol and strict instructions to call him in the morning.

"M'fine, _doctor_ ," she assures him, now awake, leaning on the doorframe. "Going to sleep." Her eyes, still bleary, are wistful. "Sorry, John. I'm an idiot."

"S'okay, Harry. You just be careful next time." There will be a next time, unfortunately. John knows his sister. No use pretending otherwise.

"Right." Harry looks up at Sherlock, who's silently watching the two of them. "Thanks for coming, Sherlock. John's got a good friend in you, showing up to help cart his sister across town."

Sherlock smiles. "Not a problem. Good night, Harry."

* * *

The cab ride back to Baker Street is blissfully traffic-free, and as they hurry into to the flat John has forgotten enough to be startled once more by Sherlock's heavy black boots and the biker jacket that frames his shoulders in a convincing illusion of broadness. Nearly impossible to tell that underneath is the slim, refined frame of a consulting detective. John feels something warm curl in his stomach. Only Sherlock.

John collapses gratefully onto the sofa as Sherlock shuts the door behind them. He's nearly faint with hunger.

"Home. Thank God. I don't think I can move."

Sherlock shrugs off the alien jacket, tosses it over his armchair. He's wearing a black t-shirt, slim black trousers, and leather gloves, and there are dark, curling lines scrolling around his seemingly bare biceps and forearms. John stares. Sherlock catches his eye, grins, peels off a glove. He starts to fiddle with something at one of his wrists and pulls what looks like a stocking off his arm. The marks come off with it.

"You didn't really think I'd ink myself for a case."

"I did, actually," John says. "I wouldn't put it past you."

"Bollocks. It might interfere with the next one."

John chuckles. "Good point." He hesitates. "You're done for the night? Not going out again?"

"Dead end, really," Sherlock says. "There's a tainted strain of heroin making its way round London, Lestrade can't tell whether two recent OD's are accidental or the work of someone who deliberately administered this tainted drug. Unfortunately my usual contacts didn't have any leads on the heroin or who's peddling it. Hungry?" Sherlock peels off the second tattooed stocking, flips his mobile out of his pocket. "Delivery."

John takes this in, but the information merely washes over him; hunger wins out over the urge to ask any additional questions. "Starving." He sits up, kicks off his shoes. "Harry's done me in. I could really use a drink, to be honest."

"Can't help there," Sherlock says, and then he looks at John. Something wicked and wonderful lights the depth of his pale eyes. This rare look of Sherlock's is John's favorite; John knows it's likely no one else in the world has seen it. This is the look before they sprint down a back alley, before they break into an abandoned building, before Sherlock pickpockets Lestrade and lets John know about it without saying a word.

John grins broadly. "What?"

Sherlock pockets his mobile, picks up the leather jacket and rummages in its pockets before pulling out a rolled-up plastic bag. He tosses it to John, who catches it one-handed. It's a fat bag of what looks to be very dense, sticky, bright green cannabis. Fine reddish hairs are threaded through it; the leaves are heavy with tiny crystals. John hasn't held a bag like this since his last trip to Amsterdam in uni. He feels his eyebrows creep up to his hairline.

"Sherlock, what exactly is this for?"

Sherlock flops into his armchair, pulls out his phone again. "Curry? No, Chinese. You want Chinese." He dials. "I would have thought you more worldly than that, John. You know perfectly well what it's for. Yes, hello. One order of beef chow mein. Shrimp fried rice. Sesame chicken. John, you'll want the egg rolls? 221B Baker Street. Half an hour?"

John turns the bag of weed over between his fingers. It feels like his brain is moving at a crawl through rush hour traffic. Sherlock's been at a club, he's gone undercover, this all can pass for perfectly normal in John's not-quite-normal life. But the fact that Sherlock should come home with a quarter ounce of lovely weed and toss it to John as if it were a pen, or a spare set of keys --

Sherlock is off the phone, arching an eyebrow quizzically in John's direction. "Problem?"

"No," John says brightly, shaking his head. "No, just -- surprised."

"I don't usually buy anything," Sherlock says, studying John. "But I've been concerned that one of my contacts suspects my motivations. Had to make a purchase to set him at ease." He steeples his fingers. "And you've had a rough night. Simple math."

Something clicks into place in John's mind; something warm, unexpected. Little pieces of the evening: Sherlock taking Harry's arm, no questions asked. Hints of genuine concern: Sherlock watching Harry, watching _John_. Ordering Chinese, not curry. Sherlock, unlikely as it seems, is the one person in the world who can come close to guessing how John is feeling right now. The one person whose presence John can tolerate after a long day of work and an evening rescuing his drunk sister.

More than that. The way John felt as the two of them shuffled up the stairs, door closed, back in the flat. He's utterly relaxed, here with Sherlock. He's home. Harry's his family, but family ceased being home to John decades ago. John isn't sure if he's had a real home for years. A house, a flat -- he's had those. A home?

Home is here, typing on the laptop, Sherlock leaning over his shoulder. Home is apparently Chinese food and crap telly and the sound of a violin. Home is any mad adventure Sherlock can dream up.

Home is, oddly enough, with Sherlock.

John grins. He feels nearly giddy, like Christmas morning. Sitting with Sherlock in the flat and doing something strange and slightly stupid is exactly, precisely what he wants to do right now.

The best part is, Sherlock somehow knows this.

"That's actually -- er. Well. Thanks. I think."

Sherlock raises both eyebrows, smiles back. "Not at all." He stands, starts rifling through the bookshelf, scanning the mantelpiece. "Have you seen my slipper?"

"You're out of cigarettes."

"Yes, well spotted. No. The _other_ slipper."

"There's another slipper?"

"Of course there's another slipper, why would anyone bother to have only one shoe?" Papers are flying, books hitting the floor. Random cardboard box of science equipment upended.

"Sherlock --"

"Aha!" Sherlock is holding a second Persian slipper John can't recall having seen before, an identical match to the one usually hidden somewhere near the fireplace. Something large and oddly shaped is jammed into it. Sherlock reaches in, twists, and pulls out a pipe.

It's heavy blown glass, bulbous, with a twisted, iridescent pattern under its surface. It looks exactly like an old-fashioned calabash tobacco pipe. John gives Sherlock an incredulous look.

"What?" Sherlock says. "It was a present."

"That," John says, "is ridiculous."

"You _have_ done this before," Sherlock says, gesturing at the bag in John's hand, which John obligingly tosses back to him. "I can't have guessed incorrectly."

"I have. But it's been a while. Decades? Not quite, but almost." John watches as Sherlock settles into his chair again, unrolls the bag, pinches off a small amount of weed and examines it closely. "Shall I get your magnifying glass?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Important to verify that the quality is as advertised."

"I wouldn't have thought this was your... thing."

An eyebrow. "No?" Sherlock is packing the weed into the pipe now, quite expertly, as far as John can tell.

"Well I know you've... experience with other, um, substances. I wouldn't have thought this was one of them."

"Oh, it was never my primary addiction by any means," Sherlock says breezily, studying the pipe. "But it's difficult to arrive at a hard drug habit without first sampling milder altered states."

"Ah."

"Really, John." Sherlock gives him a significant look, tilts his head towards John's armchair, and offers the pipe. "Sit. This is for you."

* * *

The taste is fresher than John remembered, like being outdoors, and his lungs burn, but not in a bad way. He exhales toward the ceiling, feels a warm thrill of pleasure crawling outward from his chest. Sherlock regards him from the opposite chair, cradling the pipe in one hand as he slowly pulls the flame from his lighter down into it. Sherlock leans back, exhales a long, luxurious cloud of heavy smoke which curls above their heads and drifts out the half-open window.

"What do you think?" Sherlock says, voice even deeper than usual, eyes tracking John.

"Mmm," John says, and the pit of worry low in his stomach labeled "Harry" seems to have dissipated without his noticing. "I think... you need to pass that over here again."

Sherlock grins wickedly.

* * *

"Pink Floyd?" John props his feet up on the coffee table. "Such a cliché, Sherlock, really?"

Sherlock rifles through a dusty box of vinyl records. "You've no idea what you're talking about, as usual. Obscured by Clouds, John. Dogs. Empty Spaces. I doubt you've really listened to them. There are clues. Have you played this one _backwards?_ "

 

* * *

 

There's a muffled pounding from somewhere downstairs. "Boys! Boys, are you in there?"

"Hang on, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellows, scrambling backwards over his armchair and nearly falling over in an attempt to fully open the window. "Experiment, just cleaning up -- "

John swears under his breath. "The food, Sherlock, we forgot -- Coming, Mrs. H!" Sherlock's wallet flies across the room and nearly smacks John in the forehead, provoking another string of expletives (all John's).

"Can you get that?"

"Yes. I do need both of my eyes, for future reference."

Sherlock, neatly dispensing of their evidence, gives a deep bark of laughter, and John has to bite his lip to keep from giggling as he shuts the door behind him and hurries downstairs. Mrs. Hudson is waiting for him in her dressing gown, holding a bag of takeaway with the front door open.

"Sorry, Mrs. H," John says, thrusting what he hopes is sufficient cash into the driver's hand. The front door closes. "I'll take that. Forgot we'd ordered it."

Mrs. Hudson gives him one of her eternally patient looks and hands him the bag. "That experiment of Sherlock's, it smells rather... unusual."

"Doesn't it," John says, entirely too close to outright laughter. "You know how he is about those experiments of his. We can only hope it's not toxic. At least he hasn't burned the kitchen down yet."

"Oh, that's not entirely true, dear." Mrs. Hudson pats John on the arm. "Fire department's been in more than once when you've been at work. But he's so good about not worrying you when these things happen. You're a worrier like me, I can tell. I know Sherlock spares you sometimes."

"Not always," John says wryly. "But he can surprise you."

 

* * *

 

"So you're saying," John says between bites of fried rice, "that if an alternate universe is created each time we make a choice, and we were able to somehow travel into one of these nearly identical universes, you'd be able to tell which person came from the wrong universe."

"Yes."

"You _do_ know Star Trek is not reality television."

 

* * *

 

"You have to admit, this pipe _is_ ridiculous."

"Yes, all right. But highly functional."

"Ridiculous." John digs around in the sofa, comes up with a rumpled, familiar object, tosses it at Sherlock. "New rule. Whoever's using the pipe wears the hat as well."

"You've got to be _joking_ \--"

"No arguments, soldier. Put it on."

"Arse. You're packing then."

"I have done. Here."

Sherlock considers the hat, holds the pipe in his other hand. Pauses. "If you take a photo and post it on your blog, I know over five hundred very effective ways to kill someone and make it look accidental."

"Mental image is just fine."

Sherlock jams the hat firmly onto his head, lights the pipe, and glares at John.

It takes them ten minutes to stop laughing.

 

* * *

 

They are stretched out on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, Sherlock's long toes nearly off the opposite edge, John's -- well, not quite so far away. John's taken his turn at the stereo and Mick Jagger is now promising a little coke and sympathy. It's absolute heaven, a perfect bubble far away from drunk sisters and bomb threats and serial killers. John never wants to leave.

John had forgotten about some of the side effects of the evening's diversion. His eyes and mouth feel entirely devoid of moisture, as if he's vacationing on a desert planet. He's also eaten more in one sitting than he has in the two previous days combined. He sighs contentedly, shifting lower in his seat. "I may not be able to move again. Think I've put on ten pounds just now."

Sherlock glances down, the usual cut-glass sharpness of his gaze now softened. He smiles impishly, reaches out a hand, pats John's belly. "One and a half. Two, maybe." He lets his hand rest there; it's warm, leaves an imprint of near-electric sparks through John's shirt.

Oh, John thinks. _Oh_.

"Shut up." It's a good-natured protest; he knows he could shove Sherlock's hand away, this would be the perfect time, but he doesn't. He's not thinking about what it means, either. He glances back, looks Sherlock up and down. "You ate just as much. Know what? I'm your bloody doctor. I'm going to write you a prescription. Twice weekly sessions to keep up your appetite."

A deep chuckle. "Not a bad idea." Sherlock's hand is still there; his thumb ghosts the faintest of lines across John's shirt. Oh God. _This_ is how he feels about Sherlock. It feels like layers are peeling away, coats and jackets, cotton and silk, fog and smoke. Like Sherlock shrugging off his disguise. Layers that only served to obscure what John has known for a long time.

John puts a hand over Sherlock's. Everything is very still except for the crackle of needle on vinyl, Mick's voice fading out.

_We all need someone we can bleed on  
And if you want it, why don't you bleed on me_

"The night you shot the cab driver," Sherlock says quietly, "I asked you to dinner."

"Yeah."

"I'd never asked anyone out to eat with me before. I'd never had a reason."

John chuckles. Their fingers shift, the barest hint of interlacing. "It is generally considered good manners to treat someone to dinner if they shoot a serial killer who's threatening your life."

"Don't be daft." Sherlock's answering chuckle. A pause. "No one else has ever been worth my time."

John glances down at their hands, his over Sherlock's, and smiles. It is the loveliest, daffiest, most upside-down compliment John can imagine.

Only Sherlock.

"Do you know," John says. "I feel the same way."

Sherlock's fingers, tracing. They are tracing the edge of this. It can still be easily dissipated, whatever this is. Blamed on the smoke. Exhaled.

But John can see clearly now, and it only takes a minute to realize that clarity is the far superior reality.

He takes a breath, closes his hand around Sherlock's. Off the edge. Inhale.

Sherlock doesn't pull his hand away. When John finally looks up at him, Sherlock's eyes are intent, unnaturally bright.

It is impossible to tell who leans in first. Pure coincidence, John thinks.

A twitch of the universe.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's Pink Floyd selections: "Obscured by Clouds," from the album of the same name; "Dogs," from _Animals_ ; "Empty Spaces," from _The Wall,_ which does contain a famous hidden message.
> 
> John's Rolling Stones selection: "Let it Bleed" from the album of the same name.
> 
> A tip of the hat to ACD's "The Man with the Twisted Lip."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603455) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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